


baby you're the wave and I'm ready for the crash

by napricot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Bickering, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Fake Out Make Out, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Semi-Public Sex, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV) Trailers, Undercover, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/napricot/pseuds/napricot
Summary: “Nah, my plan’s better,” Sam declares, before clapping Bucky on the shoulder.“I’m sorry, what plan? Was that a plan? It didn’t sound like a plan to me, it sounded like a vague intention,” says Bucky, still scowling, and Sam grins.“We’re winging it, the plan is a work in progress! Now c’mon, we gotta make some wardrobe adjustments if we’re gonna get into that club.”Sam and Bucky have some unorthodox methods of going undercover in a club.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 59
Kudos: 439





	baby you're the wave and I'm ready for the crash

**Author's Note:**

> What little plot there is here is based solely on my own vague speculation about the upcoming Falcon and Winter Soldier show based on the trailers, no actual spoilers here!
> 
> The next installment of we miss being ruffians should be out in a week or two, but after seeing the recent FATWS trailer and yelling about it with elizabear, I got hit with sudden Sam/Bucky feelings, so. Enjoy 6k of bickering and semi-public sex?
> 
> Title from Tara Carosielli's "Holloway Road."

When Sam hears the thumping bass of a four on the floor beat, he knows exactly where tonight’s chase is gonna end up. The pounding music shivers through the night air for a full block before they reach the club that the sound is coming from, where their target smoothly insinuates himself into a group of clubbers and slides right on past the rest of the line with them before disappearing inside.

“Great,” mutters Bucky. “Finding Jannsen in there is gonna be a pain in the ass. We don’t have time for this, Sam, Ross’s guys are catching up to us.”

Sam’s used to being in legal limbo at this point, but he can’t deny that it’s getting more and more annoying to be fighting the good fight while also on the run from the government. You’d think being Steve Rogers’ handpicked successor would smooth things over, and yet. Here they are, chasing after Zemo and his buddies to save innocent people from Zemo’s schemes, while all Thaddeus Ross cares about is getting everyone he deems his superhero pawns under his control.

“We can kill two birds with one stone,” says Sam. “We follow Jannsen in there and get the intel, and while we’re in there, we lose our tails. It’s downright efficient.”

Bucky scowls at him. It’s basically his default expression when it comes to Sam, and he probably shouldn’t find it cute, but he kind of does. What can he say, he’s seen Bucky’s actual murderface in all its blank and terrifying glory, and in comparison to that, Bucky’s grumpy scowls are downright cuddly.

“Or we can hide out on that roof over there, and stake Jannsen out—” starts Bucky, and Sam shakes his head.

“Nah, my plan’s better,” Sam declares, before clapping Bucky on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, what plan? Was that a plan? It didn’t sound like a plan to me, it sounded like a vague intention,” says Bucky, still scowling, and Sam grins.

“We’re winging it, the plan is a work in progress! Now c’mon, we gotta make some wardrobe adjustments if we’re gonna get into that club.”

Sam ducks into an alleyway, and pulls Bucky in after him, ignoring his little growl of frustration.

“Or we could just _sneak in_ , because there’s definitely a back entrance, and that way we can catch Jannsen by surprise—”

Alright, that’s a fair point, Sam concedes. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “But we still need to adjust our clothes if we don’t wanna stick out like a sore thumb in that club.”

They’re both currently dressed in the kind of casual clothes the eye skips over in most contexts; in a club, their boring layered jackets and hoodies will stand out, and not in a good way, but in a _these guys don’t belong here_ kind of way. Lucky for them, they’re guys, and the gulf between casual clothes and clubwear isn’t so big for guys as it is for women. A few adjustments, and they’ll pass muster. It helps that they’re both hot, of course. You can get away with a lot with a handsome smile.

Though one of them is hiding his light under a bushel, as it were, thinks Sam as he eyes Bucky, who’s wearing like four layers of clothes right now. The excessive layers along with his frowny face make him look like a disgruntled construction worker who just got off-shift or something. Now how the hell is Sam gonna get him club-ready…

“Lose all the layers,” he orders, and starts stripping Bucky of his leather jacket. “You can keep this on later, but you gotta ditch the hoodie.”

“I’m only wearing a t-shirt under the hoodie!” protests Bucky. “I think my vibranium arm is gonna attract more attention than wearing a hoodie into the club.”

Shit, he’s right. But, no, wait, Sam knows how to fix this.

“We’ll swap,” he says, and shoves Bucky’s jacket back at him while he takes off his own jacket. Sam’s wearing a thin long-sleeved sweater under his own layers, and he swiftly takes it off and hands it to Bucky, who’s got an armful of clothes by now and is staring at Sam, or maybe just Sam’s chest. “C’mon man, it’s cold, just hurry up, let’s finish up this switcharoo. You better not have gotten all sweaty in that shirt, I don’t wanna be stinky.”

“I don’t sweat,” says Bucky, which Sam is pretty sure is bullshit but he tries not to be too insensitive about Bucky’s whole science experiment situation, so he doesn’t call it out, and anyway, Bucky’s setting all their outerwear aside on top of the dumpster, and stripping out of his hoodie and t-shirt as ordered.

Even under the harsh streetlights that reach the alley, Bucky’s vibranium arm gleams and shimmers, prettier than most fancy jewelry, and sleeker and more high-powered than your average luxury car. Shuri did good work, and it’s kind of a shame Bucky has to cover it up. When he takes off his shirt and hands it over to Sam, Sam can’t help but think it’s a shame to cover all that up too, because damn. That’s a lot of smooth, toned muscle on display, pale enough in the shadows of the alley that Sam’s reminded of marble statues of assorted Greek gods, and Sam has a definite aesthetic appreciation for that.

Sam puts Bucky’s shirt on quickly, because seriously, it’s cold out here, while Bucky does the same with Sam’s sweater. Sam assesses the effect. Bucky’s a little broader in the shoulders than Sam is, so Sam’s sweater stretches appealingly over Bucky’s shoulders and chest, and it clings to his trim waist in pretty flattering fashion. Put together with Bucky’s tight black jeans, slim-cut leather jacket, and boots, he looks pretty damn good, and Sam thinks his look can pass for a kind of careless, not-trying-too-hard cool.

“Alright, not bad,” says Sam. “How do I look? Your shirt feels like it’s kinda small on me.”

Though it doesn’t really matter if Bucky’s shirt is a little tight in the chest area on Sam. With the hoodie off, Sam’s bomber jacket is what’s really carrying his look, and even so it’s almost too casual for a night clubbing. Sam wouldn’t have dressed like this back in his actual clubbing days, that’s for damn sure, but he figures it won’t garner him any bad attention at least.

Bucky’s left eye does this slightly alarming twitching thing, and his lips are pressed into a grim line. He’s kind of staring at Sam’s chest, and Sam’s caught between the competing urges to puff his chest out and cross his arms.

“My shirt is definitely too small on you,” Bucky says.

“Well whose fault is that?” says Sam.

“Not mine,” mutters Bucky, still glaring at Sam, or rather, Sam’s pecs.

Sam casts around for a hiding place for their extra clothes, preferably one that doesn’t smell like a dumpster or the rest of the piss-soaked alley. Bucky’s shirt smells good at least, clean and with a faintly woodsy and citrusy scent that must come from his soap or detergent whatever, and it’s still a little warm with Bucky’s lingering body heat. Which is good, because it’s chilly with only a jacket on. With a sigh of regret, Sam finds a slightly less dirty corner of the alley and stuffs their extra clothes there.

“Alright, lead the way to that back entrance you were talking about.”

“Sure,” says Bucky as he heads deeper into the alley. “Any chance you’ve come up with more of a plan now?”

Sam gets that Bucky prefers a detailed plan, with contingencies and failsafes and as much intel as possible backing it up. As coping mechanisms for decades of trauma and loss of bodily autonomy go, being a bit of a control freak is pretty understandable, and usually workable. It’s just that in Sam’s opinion, their current objective—and their current admittedly less-than-ideal, on-the-run situation—doesn’t exactly demand a careful, detailed plan. Like, Bucky seriously does not need to stress about this. Sam is pretty sure that Captain America and the Winter Soldier can handle a quick shakedown and getaway.

“Find Jannsen in the club, beg, borrow, or steal whatever dirt he’s got on Zemo, and then get the hell out of there before Ross’s guys catch up with us,” says Sam, keeping his tone breezy just for the sake of hearing Bucky’s sharp and irritated inhale.

“Uh huh. Great plan. Super detailed,” says Bucky before stopping at a dingy door under a flickering light.

The thump of club music reverberates out from behind the door, and judging by the cigarette butts, condom wrappers, and empty bottles littering the ground, this definitely leads to the club. A rush of somewhat inappropriate nostalgia flows through Sam as he surveys the disgusting detritus of a night out at the club that’s strewn all over the ground. Those were the days, he thinks fondly. Had Sam been real messy and kind of slutty in his early 20s? Sure. But goddamn, he’d had a lot of fun.

“I’d give you a whole powerpoint presentation, but we are on a time crunch here,” says Sam. “Feel free to make your own additions to the plan though!”

Bucky narrows his eyes at Sam in a considering way that immediately has Sam regretting his words. He regrets them even more when Bucky smiles, a downright dangerous curve to his lips.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe I will,” he says, then he turns, wrenches open the door with his left arm, and walks into the dark club.

* * *

It’s been a long damn time since Sam’s gone clubbing, but while the specific music and the clothes change, the whole clubbing experience has stayed soothingly familiar: music so loud you can barely hear yourself think, the press of strangers’ bodies against his, the darkness and the lighting turning everyone mysterious and attractive, the smell of spilled alcohol and sweat...it’s nice to know some things don’t change. Although, he thinks, glancing at Bucky, the clubbing experience has definitely changed since Bucky’s day.

“Guessing this is a bit of a shock?” Sam shouts over the music, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Not really,” he says. “Dancehalls could get pretty wild back in my day, you know.”

They both survey the club, looking for Jannsen. Thanks to intel from Sharon, they know Jannsen is one of Zemo’s contacts and that he’s supplied Zemo with weapons and places to lie low in the past, and the hope is that he’ll give up some intel on Zemo’s current whereabouts and plans. Sam hasn’t spotted him yet under the club’s alternately strobing lights, or in the dimmer pockets by the booths and tables, and he’s about to suggest moving further in, maybe checking the bathrooms, when Bucky grabs his arm.

He brings his lips close to Sam’s ear and says, “4 o’clock, at the bar,” and when Sam glances over, he sees Jannsen hunched over the bar, his head darting around as he takes nervous sips of his drink. The dumbass hasn’t even tried to disguise himself, and his light blond hair shines like a damn beacon in the dark of the club.

“Looks like he’s lonely. Think we should go have a chat with him?” Sam asks, and Bucky nods, already stalking off towards the bar.

Sam follows after Bucky, whose menacing stride is doing wonders for clearing their path through the crowded club, but which is maybe less than appropriate for this setting, because Sam can already see Jannsen’s shoulders hunching up, like he’s some prey animal who suspects a wolf is on the prowl nearby. Bucky’s attracting the attention of the clubbers too, people turning to look in his wake, and Sam’s about to start contemplating exit strategies when he notices the appraising and appreciative cast to those stares. And okay, yeah, Sam can admit the view from behind is pretty damn good, even if Sam thinks Bucky is skinnier than he ought to be. And seriously, does he have to wear such tight jeans? Is that slight hip swaying action, strictly speaking, _necessary_?

He catches up with Bucky in time for both of them to bracket Jannsen at the bar, Bucky throwing an outwardly friendly arm around Jannsen’s shoulders to keep him from running.

“Hey, let me buy you a drink, man,” Sam says, loud and cheerful. “Looks like you need a new one, what was it, a screwdriver?”

Sam flags the bartender down while Jannsen palpably trembles beside him. “I’m not HYDRA!” he whimpers. “Please don’t kill me!”

“I know,” says Bucky, his voice pitched low in a way that cuts past the noise of the club. “But you are one of Zemo’s buddies, and I’m not a big fan of Zemo, what with him framing me for mass murder and all. So how about you tell us everything you know about what Zemo’s up to now, and then you can finish your drink in peace?”

They toss some more threats and banter back and forth, until eventually Jannsen’s immediate terror of the Winter Soldier wins out over his more theoretical fear of Zemo.

“Fine!” squeaks Jannsen. “I don’t even give a shit about Zemo’s stupid fucking anti-superhero crusade, I just want all of you assholes to leave me alone!”

“Leave you alone to your crime-ing?” says Sam.

“I’m an honest criminal, alright? I’m no Nazi or nutjob, I just provide services to my community!”

“Uh huh, you’re a real mensch,” Bucky says, but he eases his grip on Jannsen, who finally spills the beans and gives them the locations of the safe houses he’d provided Zemo with.

Once he’s done, Sam offers, “You want another drink? It’s on us,” but Jannsen just glares at them and damn near runs away in his haste to escape them, quickly swallowed up by the darkness and the crowd.

“See? The plan worked,” says Sam and turns back to the bar, where Jannsen’s screwdriver is sitting untouched. He takes a sip of the drink because hell, he’s already paid for it, and because maybe he wants to indulge in at least a tiny bit of his clubbing nostalgia. Screwdrivers, he recalls fondly, had been one of his favorite choices for getting shit-faced. _It’s got vitamin C, it’s practically healthy!_ Sam had told assorted friends while pounding back the drinks.

Ah, youth.

Despite their unqualified success, Bucky hasn’t relaxed. He’s standing up and leaning with his back to the bar in a seemingly casual pose, and he’s scanning the club like he’s looking for someone to pick up; only the too-serious, hunter’s focus in his eyes gives away his tension. Sam sighs and sets the drink back down, and joins Bucky in his perusal of the club.

“What is it?” Sam asks.

Nothing seems amiss to Sam: the light-up dance floor is full of writhing bodies, illuminated from below and above in flashes by the occasional sweep of colored lights, and the various booths and tables scattered across the rest of the club are host to people in various stages of intoxication. He sees some pills being passed around, a waitress providing bottle service to one particularly raucous booth—all normal club stuff.

“I spot three of Ross’s men,” murmurs Bucky. “One by the DJ, one near the door, and one heading right towards us.”

Shit. It takes Sam a few seconds before he spots the guys too, and when he does he knows exactly what gave them away to Bucky’s keener eyes: their shoes. It’s always the goddamn shoes with undercover goons. And in the case of these probably military goons, it’s the hair too, their high-and-tights not nearly grown out enough to let them blend in with this crowd of hip twenty- and thirty-somethings. One of the goons is in fact heading right for the bar, and while Sam’s first instinct is to hide or run, he knows that’s an immediate and obvious giveaway, so he makes himself relax. He tips his head towards Bucky, like they’re just two guys trying to have a conversation in the loud club.

“Did they get Jannsen?” he asks, and Bucky shakes his head.

“No. But they’re gonna spot us soon enough.”

He’s right. The milling crowd of clubbers and the crush of people near the bar are giving them decent cover for now, but that’s not gonna last.

“Alright. Head for the back door?”

“Nah,” says Bucky, his voice damn near languid all of a sudden, like he’s not worried at all. He pushes off the bar and steps in front of Sam, putting his hands on Sam’s waist. His grip is light, barely there, but the sheer surprise of it has every inch of Sam’s skin tingling in reaction. With their bodies practically pressed together like this, the heat of Bucky’s body hits Sam like stepping into a blast of summer heatwave sunshine after being inside. Bucky leans in close, his lips just barely touching Sam’s ear, and his voice is an almost palpable, touchable thing as he continues, “I’ve got a plan.”

“Oh yeah?” says Sam, his voice embarrassingly breathless, and he should make some wisecrack, should talk some shit, but when Bucky flashes a knife-sharp smile his way and takes his hand to lead him to the dance floor, Sam just shuts up and lets him.

The dance floor swallows them up like an ocean, a wave reaching out to pull them in, and they ride it to its crest, to the middle of the dance floor where it’s hot and sweaty and packed, and yeah, okay, maybe this is a good strategy for staying hidden. So long as they don’t just stand here like idiots, that is, because two people not moving on a dance floor really stand out. Sam doesn’t recognize the music, not that it matters. All that matters is the beat, and that’s pounding through the air and the floor, deep and steady.

“If we’re gonna be on the dance floor, then we gotta dance,” Sam says, and starts moving, an easy rocking of his hips. “If you can handle 21st century dancing, that is.”

Bucky smiles. It’s a new kind of smile, slow and dangerous and maddening, and he puts his hands on Sam’s hips, feather-light at first before his grip turns firm and he pulls Sam towards himself.

“Seems pretty easy to me,” he says.

Sam is fully prepared to mock Bucky’s lack of rhythm, or to goad him out of any stilted stiffness, but Bucky falls into sync with him easily, and there’s no shame or awkwardness in the way he pulls Sam close. It’s not like Sam and Bucky haven’t been up close and personal before; Sam’s flown with him, they’ve shared close quarters. But flying is one thing, and the bump and grind of a sweaty dance floor is something entirely different, and Bucky, it turns out, is pretty damn good at that bump and grind.

Shit, has Bucky done this before? Sam sure as hell has, but it’s been a long damn time. The muscle memory comes back quickly though, and it’s easy to give himself over to the insistent and irresistible pulse of it: the music and his heart and his blood all pounding together, matched by the beat of his partner and the heat building between them. Even with half his attention on scanning the crowd for signs of Ross’s men, Bucky’s a natural at this, only the slight hint of a rock step rhythm giving away his swing dance roots.

Fuck, Sam kind of wishes Bucky was bad at this. Dancing has always gotten Sam going, and despite the fact that it’s totally inappropriate for their current situation, dancing with Bucky now is no exception. His body is hot and hard along Sam’s, and the way they’re moving together so effortlessly is giving Sam some real dirty ideas.

“Alright, maybe you’re not half-bad,” Sam tells Bucky, right up against his ear.

They’re pressed up so close against each other, chest to chest, hip to hip, that he feels the vibration of Bucky’s laugh. It feels good. Every time Sam surprises or teases or downright bullies a laugh out of a grumpy or stone-faced Bucky, it feels victory-lap good, winning the championship satisfying, and it’s even better now, when he’s close enough to see the bright and lively spark in his eyes, so different from the Winter Soldier’s blankness or Bucky’s own usual solemnity.

Sam’s so busy riding that high and the beat that he almost forgets why they’re here in the first place, so it’s practically as bracing as a slap to the face when Bucky goes taut and tense against him, the rhythm of their dance turning staccato.

“They’re checking out the dance floor,” says Bucky, then he looks Sam in the eye with a disconcerting mix of intense focus and—is that mischief? “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

Before Sam can ask about Bucky’s brilliant plan, Bucky implements said plan, which is apparently to kiss Sam.

It is not, objectively speaking, a bad plan: it obscures their faces, and no one’s gonna look too closely at the couple getting hot and heavy on the dance floor, and they’re sure as hell not gonna think that couple is the new Captain America and the Winter Soldier. But surely Bucky doesn’t need to go for it like this, thinks Sam, because this is no just-for-show press of their lips together, and it’s definitely not a gentlemanly concession to the circumstances. This is a prelude-to-fucking kind of kiss, deep and insistent, hungry. Sam’s mouth opens to Bucky, and all the heat that’s been building between them as they’ve danced abruptly ignites into an inferno. The hunger in Bucky’s lips, his tongue, calls forth Sam’s own, and fuck, he’s misssed this, the sheer physical satisfaction of losing himself to lust.

What’s left of Sam’s sense reminds him _this is Bucky, your partner and/or frenemy, he should be off-limits for fucking_ , but god, Bucky’s right hand is hot and urgent on Sam’s face, coaxing Sam’s mouth open wider, and his left hand is on Sam’s hip, keeping him gripped close and tight, and every part of Sam is clamoring for _more_ , for _closer_.

They keep kissing, wet and deep and messy, and goddamn, Bucky is relentless, he kisses like he wants to crawl inside Sam and Sam wants to let him, and okay, they’re not so much dancing anymore as they are straight up grinding, Sam’s cock hardening uncomfortably in his jeans by now, his hands roaming up and down Bucky’s body almost without his input. He lets his hands settle on Bucky’s ass, a pleasantly firm handful, and squeezes, drawing out a delightful gasp and groan out of Bucky. When Bucky finally pulls away, Sam actually whimpers, and it takes long seconds for his brain to catch up to what Bucky’s saying.

“Follow me,” says Bucky. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Hell yeah we do,” says Sam, dazed. “We’re about to get a public indecency charge.”

“Also, Ross’s men are closing on us.”

“What?” demands Sam, but Bucky’s already taken him by the hand and is tugging him along.

To any outside eye, they’re rushing off to find somewhere to fuck. God, Sam wishes they were actually rushing off to find somewhere to fuck, he’s painfully turned on right now and no matter what his brain is telling him about what a bad idea it is to complicate whatever growing relationship he has with Bucky with sex, his cock has other ideas. Catching a glimpse of Ross’s goons blocking their paths to the exits, and another couple of them doing a slow sweep through the club, is a rude return to reality though. Shit, maybe if they kick off a distraction…? Or they could just wait out the goons’ search.

“Wait wait wait, bathroom,” Sam tells Bucky, and Bucky throws an incredulous look at Sam from over his shoulder.

“You’re gonna have to _hold it_ , Wilson--”

“No, I mean, we should hide in the bathroom. They’ll finish up their search and assume we left already.”

Bucky does start heading in the direction of the bathrooms, even as he gripes, “And what, they’re not gonna search the damn bathrooms too?”

“I have a plan for that,” says Sam.

* * *

They get to the bathrooms undetected, and thankfully, the club bathrooms have the standard set of stalls and urinals and sinks, and they’re slightly nicer than the club bathrooms of Sam’s youth. By which he means, everything’s all brushed steel and fake marble, there are no immediate biohazards, and the smell isn’t too bad. The lighting is even the kind of soft mood lighting that’s meant to prevent drunk clubgoers from having a self-esteem crisis under fluorescent lights the moment they look in the mirror. Luckily, there’s only one other guy in the bathroom, who’s leaving as they go in, so they can take a moment to check out the space.

“Those stalls don’t exactly provide much cover,” Bucky says. “And the standing on the toilet seat trick doesn’t actually hold up to a real search.”

“We don’t need the cover,” Sam says, and after checking each stall, he picks the least disgusting one and drags Bucky into it.

“What the fuck!” hisses Bucky as Sam closes the stall door behind them, with some difficulty.

Damn, these narrow stalls are really not meant for two grown-ass superheroes, he thinks, and slides over a little so the stall door’s lock isn’t digging into his back. Bucky’s squirming around to find a comfortable position of his own, all while glaring balefully at Sam.

“You’re looking awfully scandalized for a man who just shoved his tongue down my throat in front of dozens of people.”

With their backs to the stall’s sides, there’s scarcely any room between them, and the lighting’s just bright enough for Sam to see the heady flush on Bucky’s cheeks, the way his lips have gone red and a little swollen. His hair is a tousled mess, probably thanks to Sam, and pissed or not, he looks debauched and downright sinful. It’s an infuriatingly good look on him. Every time Bucky shifts, it puts some part of him in contact with Sam, and Sam’s already starting to feel kind of overheated after all that bump and grind on the dance floor, and that heat is only building here, where they’re trapped together in the small space of the bathroom stall.

“What exactly is the plan here, Sam?”

The bathroom door opens, letting in a burst of music and chatter before the clamor turns muted again. Then there’s the sound of someone starting to piss, and it goes on for, like, an uncomfortably long time. What kind of bladder capacity does this guy have? Sam and Bucky share a mildly impressed and grossed-out look. Eventually, the guy’s stream subsides to a trickle then stops, and he leaves. Without washing his hands, ugh, gross.

Once he’s sure the coast is clear, Sam says, “The plan is _your plan_ , I’m just, uh, taking it up to 11, I guess.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up to shocked heights. “How on _earth_ is this anything like my plan—”

Before Bucky can work up to one of his hilariously aggrieved little rants, the bathroom door opens again, and this time the heavy tread that follows suggests it’s not some drunk clubber who needs to take a leak. Bucky tilts his head in a listening pose, his eyes narrowing. Someone else enters the bathroom too, but there’s no sound of anyone using the urinal or the sinks. So okay, show time.

Sam slams his hand against the stall wall behind him, and Bucky’s eyes widen in panic. Before Bucky can ruin Sam’s excellent plan by saying something like _what the fuck are you doing??_ Sam moans, long and showy, a real porn star kind of moan. Understanding dawns on Bucky’s face, and his eyes darken, all his not-inconsiderable focus shifting to Sam’s face, then his lips. He comes closer, crowding Sam against the stall and, fuck, he puts his thigh between Sam’s legs. On sheer horny instinct, Sam’s hips buck, and the brief press of friction makes his next moan a lot less of an act.

Bucky’s expression turns dangerously pleased and hungry, his still-swollen lips curling up into a damn-near indecent smile as he tilts his head back to look at Sam, the flash of his pale eyes all challenge and satisfaction. Whatever he sees in Sam makes him sigh, long and satisfied, and Sam shudders in anticipation.

Well, shit. Maybe Sam should’ve thought this through a little better.

Bucky leans in, his lips close to Sam’s ear, and presses a slow and luxurious kiss to the hinge of his jaw. That wrings a helplessly needy sound out of Sam, and Bucky hums, pleased.

“So you wanna put on a show, do you?” murmurs Bucky, as his hands roam leisurely up and down Sam’s sides. “Alright then. Let’s make it convincing.”

Then he pushes against Sam until they’re damn near glued together, and kisses the hell out of him. Fierce arousal burns through him like a fuse being lit, and he knows he should be worrying about whether that fuse will end in a messy explosion, but right now he’s seeing nothing but fireworks behind his eyes. The thumping bass of the music is only just audible here in the bathroom, not that it matters: Sam and Bucky make their own beat out of the rhythm of their hips. They’re already rutting like desperate teenagers, chasing the too-much and not-enough of friction and pressure against their cocks, and their thrusts are making the whole bathroom stall rattle.

Sam’s distantly aware of their pursuers cursing and muttering frankly homophobic comments, but he’s too busy keeping up with Bucky’s ravenous kisses to give a shit. If Ross’s goons actually bust in here, he has no doubt that he and Bucky can handle it; for now, he’s got more immediate needs. He’s practically clinging to Bucky’s broad shoulders, and when he shifts his grip down to Bucky’s ass to hold his hips closer, to get more perfect pressure against their cocks, Bucky shudders and moans.

“You like that?” asks Sam, and kneads down on the perfectly firm muscles of Bucky’s ass. “C’mon, gimme more,” he urges.

Sam grins into Bucky’s next kiss when he hears one of Ross’s goons say something like _oh come on, seriously? this is a public bathroom!_ Bucky takes this as his cue to moan again, and oh that is a pretty sound, low and sweet as it is, and Sam rewards him for it with a series of bruising kisses to the line of his jaw, to his throat, until Bucky’s gasping and cursing even as he tilts his head back to give Sam more access.

Sam obliges Bucky, keeping half an ear on Ross’s goons as he devotes some lavish attention on Bucky’s fluttering pulse point. Thankfully, their plan does seem to be working: Ross’s goons walk right past their stall, too put off by all the very audible evidence of two guys having enthusiastic sex to want to investigate more closely, and soon enough they leave.

If this were really all about a getaway plan, they’d stop now, thinks Sam through the haze of lust. Bucky’s not stopping though, and Sam has no intention of stopping either, not with the way his cock is throbbing with deliciously unbearable need, not with Bucky hot and hard against him and the way he’s moaning into Sam’s mouth, kissing him deep and thorough, like Sam’s worth savoring. Sam gets his hands up under Bucky’s sweater, and just getting that skin-on-skin contact has Sam looking forward to a less-clothed version of tonight’s events, especially because Bucky’s so incredibly responsive to it, almost trembling with every touch.

“Sam, please, fuck—“

“See? This was a good plan,” says Sam, and he dips his hands down under the waistband of Bucky’s jeans, past his underwear, to squeeze Bucky’s ass.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” chants Bucky, clinging to Sam’s shoulders as the movement of his hips goes as shaky and shuddering as his panting breaths, and then slows.

He slumps down against Sam, and Sam wraps his arms around Bucky, taking his considerable weight happily, all of Sam’s skin still clamoring for more contact, more heat.

“Did you just come in your pants?” asks Sam, delighted. “Aww, baby—“

“Shut the fuck up,” grumbles Bucky, even as he kisses Sam’s neck with languid sweetness. “It’s kinda been a while for me, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” says Sam. “Me too.”

Bucky palms Sam’s still-hard cock through the fabric of his jeans, and Sam pushes against his hand, groaning.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Bucky says, looking Sam straight in the eye as he unbuttons Sam’s pants and works his cock free. “Left hand or right hand?”

Sam, who’s already practically panting just from Bucky’s actual hand on his cock, blinks vaguely.

“What?”

“You want me to use my right hand, or my left? I’m ambidextrous. I figure I ought to ask, since there’s a pretty big difference and all. If I’m being honest, what I really want is to suck your cock, but there’s not enough room in here for that.”

Bucky’s tone is low and matter of fact, his gaze not wavering from Sam’s face as he gives Sam’s cock a few too-gentle, exploratory strokes, using his flesh and blood right hand for now. Sam’s brain is about to overload with lust, because, like, this is a lot to deal with. How dare Bucky raise the possibility of a blow job while looking at Sam like that, with the intense eyes and the red and wet mouth and the messy, pullable hair. Of course Bucky’s just as much of a little shit during sex as he is at all other times. Of course. Sam could pretend he’s mad about it, but he’d be lying.

“I dunno, I think you could make it work, you’re bendy,” Sam says, then he moans when Bucky smears the precome at the tip of Sam’s cock with a slow sweep of his thumb.

“Oh, so it’s not just about giving them a show, huh?” murmurs Bucky, the look in his eyes downright avid now.

“Can you just—oh fuck—get on with it?” Sam demands, because Bucky’s still pumping his cock way too damn slowly, and every drag of his hot, dry palm is almost too much friction to stand.

Bucky blinks and smiles, too damn innocent by far. “You never said which hand.”

“Either, any, oh my god, I don’t care—” he says, and Bucky laughs, and finally, _finally_ , starts jerking him off properly, fast and tight.

“You know,” says Bucky, his thoughtful tone at odds with the intensity of his focus on Sam, “if the whole point hadn’t been to hide, I’d have sucked you off right out there, by the sinks, or in that alley. Swallowed you down deep, taken every last drop. Would you have liked that? Practically out in the open like that. ‘Cause the way you sounded with an audience, I kind of get the impression you would.”

Sam only barely swallows down a whimper at the sinfully hot vision this suggestion conjures up. “Jesus christ,” he swears—moans, really. “Your fucking mouth, Barnes, I swear to god—”

“What about my fucking mouth?”

“It’s—fuck—it’s a goddamn menace is what. The way you kiss, I’ll be you suck cock like a champion. Jesus, tighter, faster, c’mon—”

“Well, I might be outta practice,” says Bucky, with false modesty, but the motion of his hand speeds up too, and he leans in to kiss Sam, a viciously dirty kind of kiss, wet and messy in a way that has Sam’s brain lighting up with too much input: Bucky’s hand on his cock, Bucky’s tongue in his mouth, Bucky’s vibranium hand gripping his hip firmly enough to bruise, the mental image of that pretty mouth around his cock, the hot press of Bucky’s body against his, and fuck, it’s all too much in the very best way.

Sam comes, long and almost convulsive, like a full-body unwinding after a long night of tension, the release of it flowing through him in one crashing, sweet wave. Bucky kisses him through the comedown, light and gentle now, like a soft landing after a reckless flight.

Once he’s caught his breath, Sam says, “So, clearly, my plan was great.”

Bucky pulls back a little, narrowing his eyes at Sam.

“ _Your_ plan? This was my plan!”

“What? No, I’m the one who said we should blend in in the club—”

“ _I’m_ the one who came up with the distraction and the cover—”

* * *

They argue about just whose plan this was while they do their best to clean up. Just in time, clearly, because Sharon’s waiting for them in the hallway outside the bathroom.

“Ross’s men have cleared out,” she says, her eyebrows going up as she takes them in. “I’m guessing you got Jannsen’s intel already?”

“Yeah,” says Sam, and tries not to squirm under her sharp and amused appraisal.

“We’ve got some good leads on Zemo now,” adds Bucky.

Sam thinks he managed to clean himself up okay, but there’s no real way of avoiding how Bucky looks rumpled in a distinctly post-sex kind of way, his hair a mess and his lips still swollen, face still pink and flushed. He looks like he should be in someone’s bed, and Sam can admit to himself that he wants that bed to be his, wants to explore more than a bathroom fuck.

“Do I even want to know why you two were in there for so long?” asks Sharon, and Sam exchanges a quick panicked glance with Bucky. Shit, how long has she been here? “I came here in case you needed an extraction, but clearly, it wasn’t necessary.”

“Oh, you know, just had to improvise a cover,” says Sam.

Sharon smiles, dimpled and sweet, except for her frankly kind of terrifying shark eyes situation. She always _looks_ cute and pretty, until you meet her dark brown eyes, which remind you that she is fully capable of fucking your shit up.

“Uh huh. Making out on the dance floor is a cover now?”

Of course she saw that. Of course.

Bucky’s plan is to apparently just Winter Soldier his way through this, because he puts on his standard resting murder face. It doesn’t have quite the usual effect, what with the faint post-orgasmic glow he’s got going on.

“Yes,” he says, and Sam nods, backing him up.

“I learned from the best, Sharon: public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable,” he says, and tries not to dwell on the stinging grief the words call up. “It was a perfectly good last-minute cover.”

“Affection?” repeats Sharon, with polite interest. “Is that what that was?”

Sam looks at Bucky again, who, despite his best attempt at frowning in forbidding grumpiness, is still flushed sweetly pink. Also, there are a couple hickeys on his throat, already fading but unmistakable. Sam doesn’t even bother to hold back his grin. Yeah, maybe affection _is_ the right word here.

“Yup,” he says, and Sharon rolls her eyes. “Hey, don’t knock our plan. It worked, didn’t it?”

At the word _our_ , Bucky’s mouth stays firm, but his eyes crease up in a secret, sparkling smile and as they walk out of the club together, he stays close enough for their shoulders and hands to keep brushing against each other. Affection, thinks Sam a little ruefully, is definitely the right word.


End file.
